Chapter Text
He walked stiffly along a residential street in a small English town. The street could hardly have been more English or more residential; it was saturated with an English residentiality that made the man's teeth hurt, over and above his other aches. He paused at the white gate and breathed deeply, resettling his coat against his shoulders. A wet bramble rose brushed his cheek, and he swiped it away irritably. His cuffs and collar gleamed white in the dusk.
Indoors, Leonie Barrow stood over a utility sink scrubbing a bucket of paintbrushes with turpentine. Her head was wrapped in a faded scarf, and she was wearing her father's old trousers. She had smudged cream-coloured paint onto her forehead ten minutes ago and hadn't realized it yet. She frowned and looked up from her brushes; was that a knock?
At the door she glanced the narrow window. Once upon a time her father had needed to remind her to do that. Now she believed in monsters.
Dusk was falling, but outside the hallway light picked out a gleam of silver-headed cane, a tightly knotted cravat, and a cold blue-grey eye staring back at her. "Miss Barrow. May I come in?"
It was absurd, the grip a polite upbringing could have. Johannes Cabal was the worst monster Leonie knew, but it was an effort to pause and think about it. An inward voice insisted, insanely, that it was rude to keep deranged necromancers standing on the mat as if they weren't welcome. The traditions of Barrow hospitality insisted Cabal be invited in and offered sherry. A fainter, madder voice sang that rudeness wasn't very ladylike, either, dear. Leonie tightened her jaw and endured. "Why?"
"I would rather discuss it inside." The pause stretched out until it was uncomfortable. "I give you my word that I will offer you no harm while I am your guest."
The chorus sensed a weakness and doubled the ferocity of its litany. See how polite the killer was being? How ungracious she was, to doubt his word. He would think she didn't trust him, next. "Miss Barrow. You will recall that I did you no harm -" and a pause, barely perceptible, "in April."
She sighed. She wished she thought he was lying. But what did he want from her now? She unlocked the door and flung it open. "Come in. Sherry?”
***
She took his hat and his unexpectedly heavy stick. She put him in the parlour. He took a sip from his tiny crystal glass of sherry and set it on the doily-topped table by his elbow.
"Excuse my trousers" she said, making small talk. The longer she kept Cabal from his point the more uncomfortable he seemed to become, and she had resolved to have what fun she could. "I painted the skirting boards this afternoon, and I was cleaning up when you arrived."
"I require your assistance, Miss Barrow."
"The weather is terrible for painting. Did you have rain on your way here?"
"It is a matter of some urgency."
"Still, it is good for the flowers. Did you notice our bramble roses? They're flourishing this year." She was beginning to enjoy herself. Cabal shifted awkwardly on the sofa.
"Miss Barrow, I am afraid I must impose upon you for the night. I require the protection of your threshold."
Leonie was taken aback. “My what?”
"Your threshold," he repeated. "You are familiar with the concept?"
Her brow wrinkled. "The door. The entrance to a building or house."
"Esoterically speaking, the entrance to a home," he said. "There is related folklore. Are you familiar with it?"
She considered it reluctantly. “Do vampires have to be invited in? Is that the story?"
It was his turn to pause. "Hm. I couldn't say. But you have grasped the concept. The effect is very real to some creatures, and a group of such beings is currently pursuing me."
"And you led them to my house?" She wasn’t afraid, not yet. Cabal didn’t seem frightened.
"You will be at practically no risk."
"Naturally. Why not use your own home?"
"I am not certain... What makes a house a home, Miss Barrow?"
"Care. Hospitality. L...love. I see." That had not come out quite right, but it was said.
He curled a lip at her, but did not dispute her conclusion. He dabbed his forehead with a stiff white handkerchief. "My own threshold may not be strong enough. Yours and your father's should be more than sufficient. Where is he?"
"On a fishing trip with friends." She wondered if she should have lied. Cabal seemed not to have heard. He had gone corpse-pale, and stood carefully.
"Excuse me." Taking his Gladstone bag, he walked up the stairs. She followed him - god only knew what Cabal planned to do up there. She was nonplussed when she arrived to find the door to the bathing room closing. Surely he wasn't planning to have a soak now?
"I'm not sure how you mistook that for the end of the conversation, Cabal. What is following you, and how dangerous is it?"
A minute passed, and she heard nothing. She was turning to leave when she heard a clatter of metal and a stifled cry of pain.
"Cabal, are you well?"
"Very well, Miss Barrow." There was a strained quality to his voice. Silence.
"Mr. Cabal. If you’re unwell, I hope you will let me help."
There was a long pause, very long, and then the click of the bolt being turned back. Leonie took it as capitulation, and opened the door.
He’d hung his suit jacket, shirt, undershirt, and cravat neatly on the hooks. Opening the door wider, she saw the necromancer on the edge of the bathtub, his head sunk between his knees. His back was a field of angry inflammations where black slivers were driven far into the flesh. "Dear God."